


Cotton Canvas

by pumpkinfoxes (100xGrounder)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Burglary, Dark, Harry Potter - Freeform, M/M, art store au, rowle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 06:30:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9110668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/100xGrounder/pseuds/pumpkinfoxes
Summary: two burglars try to steal the same painting





	

**Author's Note:**

> this work is a christmas gift to @rowle on tumblr! :)))

Viktor Krum’s never stolen anything before (unless you count hotel amenities).

He may be good at sneaking tiny shampoo bottles and salt packets and mini pillow chocolates—hell, he’s the grand master of it.

But he’s not exactly the type to go and rob art stores on a whim.

This time is different.

This time he’s attacked— _mauled_ —and told to get the purple sunset painting or lose his life.

This time it’s two in the morning and he’s wearing a large black coat with buttons fastened all the way up to the top and he’s jamming a bobby pin inside a doorknob wishing there weren’t so many streetlamps shining down on his figure.

His stomach feels empty and his hands feel cold and he can’t stop shaking—he shouldn’t be scared, he thinks. He’s always been known as _Mr. Confidence_ , driven to do anything. He’s the most awarded boxer in the EU. His mother is Miss Bulgaria 1979 and his father is the world’s most famous cello carver, so he’s used to presure.

Nothing’s scared him before.

So why is his heart beating like a hummingbird; why has he been rethinking every step he’s taken so far; why does he feel like someone is following him?

Every instinct inside of him tells him to go back home.

When he goes to jiggle the bobby pin in the doorknob, he discovers it’s already unlocked. He grits his teeth and warily creaks open the heavy wooden door. It’s pitch black inside. He can hear rustling and a zipper quickly being zipped closed; a dark silhouette peers at him through the shadows.

 _Shit_ , he hears them mutter followed by numerous thuds and what sounds like a vase shattering.

Adrenaline and fear pump through his veins as the alarm sounds and dogs start barking behind him and he hasn’t the faintest idea why but he runs inside the tiny art store and hides in a rather _cozy_ -looking closet at the back of the shop.

Three police cars pull up moments later; sirens blaring and lights flashing.

They swarm inside the building and flip the lights on, he timidly glances through the cracks of the closet door and sees an officer touch the broken vase with the tip of his shoe.

Suddenly he’s aware of someone else’s breathing next to his ear; heavy and warm. There was another burglar in the shop, he realizes.

There’s another burglar … Here with him now.

The pit of his stomach feels void and like all the horror movies in the world couldn’t compare to this moment.

“Don’t say a word,” the voice whispers.

And it’s quiet.

Quieter than the hum of a dishwasher running at three in the afternoon. All he can think is what will happen to him if he’s caught? If he fails his mission, who will come after him?

He swallows and listens intently to the slow footsteps outside the door.

“You were here to steal something,” he whispers softly—more of a comment than a question.

“I said ‘don’t say a word’,” the man hisses and shoves him. The sound of Viktor’s polyester coat rustling makes them both cringe and they peak out of the slots in the door to assure no one’s heard.

The officers just walk slowly around and inspect the damage, write notes on tiny sheets of paper and sigh, probably annoyed or frustrated.

“I was gonna steal something too,” Viktor admits.

“Great to know we’re all burglars here.” The man—probably just over six feet—slowly sits down on the floor and Viktor follows.

“But why?” He says. “What were you stealing? Were you threatened too?” He sounds more offended and almost protective than curious.

“Threatened?” He scoffs. “I’m taking back what’s mine. I spent months bent over that canvas, I bet all the art in here was stolen.” He seems angry but the look in his eyes is empty, homesick, afraid. Viktor can tell he’s not a city boy.

Then.

Suddenly.

The door flies open and the bright yellow fluorescent lights shine down on the both of them. Cops point guns and orders are yelled at them. A hand seizes Viktor’s arm and pulls him up from the floor.

“Who are you boys? How’d you get in here?” A police officer demands.

No one says anything.

“I said ‘Who are you boys!’” She yells again.

“Charlie.” The other yells anxiously. “And it’s my fucking painting. I’m not stealing anything!”

“You’ll get your chance to speak later.” She warns.

Seeing him in better light now, the burglar seems shorter; less of a threat. But something still feels oddly dangerous about him. The way his lips curve and his eyes narrow in harsh acidity. His sharp jaw and freckled cheekbones are like stars— _abysmal._

His hair is bright red—almost like cherries, highlighted with soft colors of papaya. His entire head is a fucking orchard of sensations Viktor needs to feel.

Who the hell even is this guy? He’s the type to create paintings adorned with perfect nimbus clouds and shades of violet but risk going to prison by breaking and entering.

“What’s your name?” The officer asks him.

“Viktor.” He mumbles. He realizes that in this moment he probably doesn’t sound like he usually might. Not like a boxer, certainly not like a criminal.

He sounds vulnerable.

But he’s accepted his destiny. He’s going to jail, for sure. He doesn’t understand why but he’s okay with that, no one’s going to be able to come after him or threaten him in jail, right? He’ll be fed, clothed, sheltered. His parents probably won’t even realize he’s gone.

He looks over to the young college-age boy standing next to him.

It’s a curious way to meet someone, he thinks. Like being buried with a stranger or doomed to the same gloomy fate.

They’re handcuffed and led to the back seat of a police car. The doors close and awkward silence ensues.

“What were you going to steal?” The boy— _Charlie_ —suddenly asks.

“Your painting.” Viktor says, expecting to get a threat or a punch or something worse but instead he just laughs with pure hysteria like something is amusing and leans his head back. Viktor can see the top of a tattoo lining his collar bone; just slightly.

_It’s a dragon._

He leans back as well and turns his head to face him. “Looks like we’re going to be jailmates, huh?”

The ginger stares back with gold saturating his irises and smiles with perfect recklessness sending chills up Viktor’s spine.

“Hmm,” he agrees. “I think we’re going to be great friends.”


End file.
